


A Father's Farewell.

by NoodlesDoodles1



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Baby Toby Smith | Tubbo, DadSchlatt, Gen, Parent Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoodlesDoodles1/pseuds/NoodlesDoodles1
Summary: T/W: references to addiction, alcohol, cigarettes; references to child abandonment; angstAh, hihi!I really adore the dad!schlatt au, so I wanted to produce something to contribute. It is a very rough draft, and I wrote this at midnight the other day so its completely not polished at all, but I wanted to post it on here. I'm not expecting many people to see it, so thank you if you do read it!I might make more little stories for this au, I literally adore it with my whole heart and more, and may or may not have spent a couple hours crying over the fanart made for it.Thank you for spending your time here! Hope you enjoy!! <33
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	A Father's Farewell.

**Author's Note:**

> T/W: references to addiction, alcohol, cigarettes; references to child abandonment; angst
> 
> Ah, hihi!  
> I really adore the dad!schlatt au, so I wanted to produce something to contribute. It is a very rough draft, and I wrote this at midnight the other day so its completely not polished at all, but I wanted to post it on here. I'm not expecting many people to see it, so thank you if you do read it!  
> I might make more little stories for this au, I literally adore it with my whole heart and more, and may or may not have spent a couple hours crying over the fanart made for it.  
> Thank you for spending your time here! Hope you enjoy!! <33

Schlatt groaned. His head was throbbing with pain – he was unsure of whether this was from the alcohol, or him collapsing onto the desk the night before. He lifted his head up slowly. The first thing he saw was a mirror, cracked around the edges. He stared at his reflection, blinking the sand out of his tired eyes. Tracing the deep, dark bags beneath his sullen eyes with a shaky finger, he sighed in discontent. He looked an utter state.

His breath stunk of burnt-up cigarettes and cheap alcohol, the taste remaining bitter and sedating in his mouth. His clothes were torn, yellowing at the edges, and his tie was loosely hanging from the collar. His shirt clung to his warm and sweaty body desperately, from sleeping in them the night before. And god, his hair – it was incredibly unkept and dirty, a mop of messy, brown curls. He could hardly recall the last time he even touched the shower. And his fucking horns - they made him look like a monster. He despised them with his whole soul and more, and often had to fight the urge to take a saw to them.

And his room – clothes were dumped everywhere, hiding his creaky floorboards. Pages upon pages of desperate calculations were fastened to the walls by those colourful push pins, some creased, and others ripped off entirely. He had added to that last night, it seemed, due to the pages upon pages of fresh calculations in his tattered notebook. Schlatt traced some of the writing in the book’s pages with a shaky finger, straining his eyes to make out words or phrases in the midst of his messy scrawl.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘To whom it may concern.’

‘Fuck you.’

He flicked through a separate stack of paper, neatly written up in printed text. Each letter had the text ‘Important’ or something along those lines printed on the top – Schlatt could not care enough to read them. He would rather repress, than accept. There was enough going on in his life already.

“Overdue my ass.” Schlatt scoffed, pushing the piles of angry, demanding letters to the side.

Greasy dollar bills and small pennies littered his desk, strewn across the table, beside his notebook. He opened his clenched fists and watched as a few cents rolled out and fell to the floor. He could taste the bitter, metallic pennies on his tongue. Schlatt shuddered, cringing as he picked up another stack of paper.

He swallowed.

Pages and pages of numbers. Lines upon lines of his messy scrawl. Scribbles through numbers and words. Smudged ink. Dark puddles of black at the bottom of the page. Frustrated scribbles as the ink was running low. Creased edges from where Schlatt had dug his elbows into the paper the night before, groaning in utter frustration, holding back tears.

Schlatt sifted through the papers, filled with numbers that made his head ache. God, he was desperate as hell last night. Smashed piggy banks and bottles of liquor. Burnt up cigarettes and letters to people he had not seen since high school.

He was just a kid, god damnit. He was still learning how to live – how to live, how to have fun, how to manage two jobs at once and how to care for a kid barely the size of his forearm. He was doing it all alone. No family, no friends. No-one cared enough to stop and help the single dad, obsessing over bills and alcohol, barely clinging onto the fragile hope of freedom.

He promised that he would get better. For the little boy, crying in the other room.

_Shit._

Schlatt jumped back into reality, exiting his confused daze. He threw himself out of his chair, and stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the quaint room at the end of the hall. His eyes traced its contents. A chipped cot, with its paint and polish peeling off. He recalled the very day he constructed that, sat in the backyard with a saw and bucket of white paint. The kid was sat on the pavement, drawing crappy images of the pair on the ground with fluorescent green and yellow chalk. Schlatt loved them, though. He adored each creation with his entire soul, and more.

At least the brunette sat inside of the cot was alright.

“Hey, Tubbs!” Schlatt cooed, picking Tubbo up and pressing him against his chest.

"Hey, shh, shh," He shushed the boy, "Dada's here. It's okay. I'm here."

Swaying in place, he rocked the boy back and forth to calm him down, waiting as the cries came to a gentle halt. He sighed.

A part of him knew he could not do this any longer.

He tried to deny it.

Schlatt changed the kid into a fresh outfit – a pair of dungarees; a pair of yellow, work sneakers; a striped sweater, black and yellow in its colour. The dungarees had a blob of colour stitched into the pocket that vaguely resembled a bee. Schlatt truly did try to make it look nice, but his fingers were too shaky and thumb too big to sew properly. He was never cut out for such meticulous, precise tasks. He slipped a card into the pocket of the dungarees.

“Come on, Tubbo.”

He placed Tubbo onto his shoulders, shouting and laughing excitedly as they ran down the stairs, arms out and flapping as if they were a family of bees. Tubbo hummed quietly, mimicking the familiar buzz of bees. Before long, Schlatt felt two arms around his eyes, blinding him temporarily.

“I’m blind!” Schlatt laughed, placing a hand on Tubbo’s head. He rolled his eyes as the kid giggled, kicking his legs back and forth gently. Normally, Schlatt would be pretty pissed about getting hit over and over, but since it was Tubbo, he endured the pain of his yellow sneakers digging into his chest.

They buzzed over to the kitchen together, preparing to leave for the day. Schlatt had work today, and Tubbo had no choice but to come along. Tubbo typically sat in the office, playing with the wings of his bee plushie, or staring out the window, as Schlatt tapped away tirelessly at his keyboard. Though Schlatt juggled two jobs and ran a few errands on the side, it was never enough.

Never enough money.

Never enough time.

Never enough.

He never had any issues with Tubbo, and any potential noise. Since he was a baby, the kid had only made small grunts of happiness, giggled, and cooed back at Schlatt. The kid was mute, unwilling to speak to anyone. Not even Schlatt. He desperately wanted to see someone to ‘fix’ his son, to understand why the boy was this way. What had Schlatt done wrong? What was Tubbo thinking behind that mask of giggles and cries?

He would never know.

Schlatt grew to understand there was nothing wrong with Tubbo. He did not need to be fixed, and in fact, his lack of voice made him all the more fun to be around. The boy would draw pictures to explain everything, and Schlatt took a small course on sign language for a bit. Emphasis on the took – though he tried, he failed to earn enough money to keep the classes going, so Tubbo only knew basic words and how to fingerspell.

He failed at a lot of things.

His heart dropped as he heard Tubbo’s stomach rumble. A confused cry erupted from the boy, his arms and legs kicking out. Schlatt paced over to his broken fridge, and pulled out the scraps from last night’s dinner, guilt pooling at the bottom of his stomach. It was a soggy burger, from one of those crappy restaurants down the street that deep fried everything in grease. God was it unhealthy – but it was all he could afford. A dollar bill could buy Tubbo a meal there.

Schlatt did not really eat nowadays.

“I know, I know Tubbs. I know you’re hungry.” He sighed, “Dada’s hungry too.”

He sat Tubbo on the ground. Exhausted with fatigue, hunger, and a hangover, Schlatt rubbed his forehead slowly. He carefully began to rip up the half-eaten burger, mouth salivating as he stared at the food. His stomach rumbled loudly, causing a twang of pain to spike through his stomach. Groaning, he keeled over and wrapped his arms around his torso in a desperate attempt to ease the rippling pain.

Who was he kidding?

Tubbo needed this more than him.

He pushed the plate of pieces of meat and bun towards Tubbo, watching as the boy picked up each morsel between his finger and thumb and dropped it into his mouth, giggling happily. Schlatt smiled, tired. At least Tubbo was okay.

Though the urge to vomit was growing stronger by the second, he repressed the feeling. He needed to be strong. For Tubbo. The kid had already toddled in on him, many times, hanging over the toilet, throat burning as he vomited last night’s alcohol and a midnight meal of cigarettes and pot noodles. He remembered how the kid would step towards him, and wrap his tiny arms around Schlatt’s quivering body, resting his cheek against the man’s back.

It was as if to say everything would be fine. That somehow, in this bitch of a world, they would come out on top. And although Schlatt told himself that, deep down, he knew it was all a lie. A fairytale he told himself to justify keeping this innocent kid in a fucking shithole.

He felt a small hand on his arm.

Schlatt glanced up, returning to reality. He found he had tucked himself into a ball, body shaking as he rocked himself back and forth in the fetal position, shaking and quivering as he became lost in the void of his thoughts. Tubbo would sometimes copy Schlatt, as if it were a game, rocking back and forth before losing interest and tapping his father on the arm.

“I’m sorry, Tubbs. Dada’s okay.”

He ruffled Tubbo’s hair, and the pair set out for the day. Schlatt smiled weakly as he buckled his kid into the car seat, adjusting it so that it fit him perfectly. He closed the door and lingered there for a second, as if there was something more he wanted to say. Something more he wanted to do.

With a deep breath, he hopped into the front of the car, and began his journey onwards. He smiled at Tubbo’s nonsensical giggles at the trees, and yellow cars, and funny numberplates, and those stickers on car windows. He watched with a careful eye as Tubbo waved at strangers and tapped on the car window, bobbing up and down to songs on the radio and cuddling his plushie tight. He sighed, relieved, as Tubbo lulled into a restful slumber.

God knows how long he would drive for.

Schlatt did not know how long it had been, or where he was going – but, the road was disappearing now, and the pair were driving into a small enclosure, holding host to gravelly paths, trees, and roads. It was quiet. The gentle pitter patter of rain against the car roof rung in his hears, waking Tubbo up. Schlatt pulled the car to a sudden stop, but left the engine running. He was not going to be here for long. Throwing his legs around the side of the car, Schlatt felt tears jerk at his eyes. 

This was for the best.

The ground squelched and bubbled as he stepped, covering his shoes in a thick layer of mud. He retrieved a small cardboard box from the car’s boot and placed it on the ground. It had a few pieces of paper cello taped to the side, and a desperate note scrawled on the front that simply read ‘Please, take care of him.’

Schlatt picked Tubbo up, and placed him inside the box, guilt tugging at his heart as the boy stared up at him with confused eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that, kid.”

The box had plenty comfort – all of the boy’s many blankets, pillows, and a rugged pair of boots.

“Hey, kiddo, wanna see a magic trick?”

Schlatt displayed his hands to Tubbo, showing the boy that nothing was in them. He clenched his fingers into a fist, and reopened them, producing a couple of crayons. He felt his heart sink into his stomach when five small fingers wrapped around one of his. He blinked, desperately trying to hold back angry tears.

“Draw something for me.”

He watched as Tubbo began to scribble on the inside of the box, doodling pictures of his favourite things.

“Tubbo, d’you like it? It’s cool, right?”

Tubbo glanced up at his father, pointing a finger at his dad, and then himself.

“I can’t stay, alright. But you, please, stay here. Stay right here, okay? Be a good boy, for me.”

Schlatt felt tears roll down his cheeks. He stared at the ground, and wiped them away, watching as the floor blurred beneath him.

“I am so sorry. I fucking failed you, I know. I do not deserve you; you hear?” He clasped his hand to his mouth, stifling an angry sob, “You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I hope you know that I love you.”

Backing away from the box, he chewed on the inside of his cheek, and shook his head slowly. He reached for his hat, and held it in his hands, flipping it over to reveal the inscription inside - one of Tubbo's drawings. He had stitched it in there, one night, as the pair sat together watching television, Tubbo resting his head on his father's thigh as he napped. Schlatt remembered carrying him back to bed that night. He remembered ruffling his child's hair, and he remembered flicking the lights off slowly in an attempt to be quiet.

He placed the hat onto Tubbo's head, covering the boy's horns and eyes. Tubbo lifted his hands to his face to adjust the hat, desperate to catch a glimpse of his father.

“Dada’s gotta go now, Tubbs. I have to. But I love you. Dada loves you. _So fucking much.”_

A confused cry raises from Tubbo’s throat.

Schlatt tripped into his car, and slammed the door shut, blocking out the screams emitting from his baby _. His baby_.

Oh fuck.

He dug his heels into the accelerating pedal, disappearing from the scene within seconds. The car was racing down the road, as fast as possible, whilst Schlatt fought a losing war with himself internally. He dared not look back. If he did, he would probably succumb to it all, and take Tubbo back. He would ruin the kid’s life. The kid would grow up, and probably end up like him. A struggling addict in denial, a shitty person and an even shittier dad.

He pulled the car over, bringing it to a stop in the middle of nowhere. 

He slammed his hands against the wheel, cringing as the horn blared. Yet, he could not stop. Over and over, again and again. His angry screams and desperate cries were drowned out by the blaring horn. Acidic tears streamed down his reddened face, burning his cheeks, his emotions a muddy mix of anger, sorrow, and fear. He screamed until his throat was begging for him to stop, burning and sore. He screamed until he could drown out the cries of his son in his mind. He screamed until he could scream no more. 

Schlatt picked up a bottle of whiskey and clenched it in his hands. The label was blurred due to the tears, but he could recite every single word on that packaging by heart. His shaky hands unscrewed the lid, whiskey splashing onto his trousers and over his car. He pressed it up to his lips, the cold glass against his hot face almost refreshing, in a fucked up way.

He closed his eyes and took a sip.


End file.
